The Spook Lights Affair (17 page)

The clerk who held forth behind the counter was somewhat younger, seemed to have been recently swept, and wore a large red bow tie as if to compensate for the fact that he had very little if any chin. He favored Quincannon with a gap-toothed smile and asked how he could be of service, though he was not particularly effusive about it.

“S. Holmes,” Quincannon said. “Is he in?”

“Holmes? I don’t believe we have a guest by that name, sir.”

“Room twelve.”

“Twelve? I believe … yes, that room is vacant.”

“Since when?”

“Since yesterday morning. I checked the gentleman out myself. But his name was Peabody, Aloysius Peabody.”

“Englishman. Tall, thin, nose like a hawk’s, carries a blackthorn stick and wears a cape and a large cap.”

“No … Mr. Peabody was tall and thin, but he didn’t look or dress like that. And he wasn’t English—he was from Australia. Some place called Canberra.”

Quincannon remembered Sabina’s description of the crackbrain’s latest disguise. “Handlebar mustache, stovepipe hat, loud purple vest embroidered with orange flowers.”

“Why … yes, that sounds like Mr. Peabody.”

Peabody. Bah. “How long was he here?”

“Ten days, I believe. Yes, that’s right. Ten days.”

“I don’t suppose he left a forwarding address.”

“I don’t think so, but I’ll check.” And a minute later, “No, I’m sorry, sir, no forwarding address.”

“Or said anything about going home to bloody England.”

“No, sir. But he wasn’t from England. Australia, as I said. Canberra, Australia. Are you sure he’s the man you’re looking for?”

“All too blasted sure.”

Vanished into the ether again, just as he had seven months before. But for how long this time? Quincannon had thought he was rid of the man last fall, but oh no, no such luck. Popped up twice this past week like a damn jack-in-the-box, and would doubtless do so again at some inopportune time in the future. Or opportune time, confound him, if what he had told Sabina on the trolley last night proved valid. That was the most infuriating thing about the dingbat Sherlock. How could a mental defective find out so much about covert criminal activities and be right about so much of it so often?

“It may be,” the clerk was saying helpfully, “that your friend decided—”

“He’s no friend of mine.”

“—that your, ah, acquaintance or business associate decided to take up residence in another hotel—”

“Nor either of those.”

“—and that you’ll be able to find, uh, whoever he is by—”

“I don’t want to find him. I never want to see him again.”

“But … but you came here looking for him.…”

“And a good thing for him that he wasn’t here,” Quincannon said, and left the clerk looking as if his brain had just been tied in knots.

17

QUINCANNON

The uptown section known as the Tenderloin, an area roughly encompassed by Market Street, Union Square, City Hall, and Van Ness Avenue, was a curious mixture of middle-class residences, medium-quality restaurants and saloons, dance halls and variety-show theaters, the Tivoli Opera House, the luxurious Baldwin Hotel, and in recent years, a proliferation of gambling establishments and sporting houses that catered to the city’s gentry. In the latter respect, the Tenderloin was considered a less dangerous, more genteel version of the Barbary Coast. Its name was said to have derived from an oft-quoted comment made in 1879 by a New York City police captain, one Alexander Williams, when he received a transfer to a similar section of that city known as Satan’s Circus. Alluding to extortion payments made to police by illicit business owners, he stated to a friend, “I’ve had nothing but chuck steak for a long time, and now I’m going to get a little of the tenderloin.”

Charles Riley’s House of Chance, on Post Street, was one of the area’s high-toned gambling houses. Not so much externally, the building being a plain wooden one, except at night when the energized gas in a large electric discharge lamp glowed its name for all to see. Inside, it was close to opulent. Fresco and gilt, large paintings of voluptuous women in various stages of undress, ceiling-high mirrors, dazzling lamplight. A well-appointed bar and long rows of mahogany tables, some of them covered now because daytime play was light, the rest presided over by scantily outfitted women, all offering a variety of games of chance—faro, chuck-a-luck, roulette, craps. At the rear was a card room where poker and blackjack were played round the clock. None of the games, so far as Quincannon knew, was rigged. Unlike the proprietors of the Barbary Coast dens, Riley relied on unlucky repeat customers and house percentages for his profits.

The owner could generally be found on the premises, ensconced in his combination office and living quarters above the card room. He was there when Quincannon arrived. While there was little enough trouble in the House of Chance, Riley was a timid little man with a horror of both violence and theft and so employed several security men. One guarded the stairs to his lair at all times; no one was allowed admittance unless Riley granted permission. Quincannon presented his card to the massive individual on duty, waited while it was taken upstairs, and eventually was allowed to climb and enter.

Three items of furniture dominated the office, each so large it made Riley seem even smaller when he occupied it. One was a gleaming mahogany desk, the second a red velvet, pillow-strewn couch that likely doubled as a bed, and a matching overstuffed chair with flat armrests nearly a foot wide. Whenever Riley sat in the chair, as he was presently doing, he reminded Quincannon of a diminutive potentate on a plush throne. Curled up at his feet was his constant companion, a huge mastiff named Rollo. The dog’s amber-colored eyes regarded Quincannon as though he were a cut of tenderloin. As he had on previous visits, he chose to pretend the beast was nonexistent.

Riley was not one to mince words. He said, “Well, Quincannon? What brings you here this time?”

“A few more questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ve already told you all I know about that fellow Cantwell.”

“Except for one thing. Did he do his gambling here alone or in the company of others?”

“I have no idea. I hardly knew him until he came to me with his proposition.”

“Don’t waste your time with piddlers and pikers, eh? But you do know the high-rollers among your regular customers.”

“Of course.”

“Would David St. Ives be among them?”

Two vertical lines appeared on Riley’s forehead and extended down to bracket his thin nose—his version of a frown. “Why do you ask?”

“Professional interest.”

“The same professional interest as in Bob Cantwell?”

Quincannon shrugged. “
Is
St. Ives one of your regular customers, Charles?”

“He is. Or was until recently. A valued one, as matter of fact.”

“Meaning he lost more than he won. Lost heavily on occasion, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

“Until recently, you said. When did he stop coming in?”

“A few weeks back. Short of funds, I imagine.”

Or had his access to ready cash cut off by his father. “What was his gaming preference? Or did he sample all your wares?”

“Dice,” Riley said. “Craps, mostly.”

“The same as Bob Cantwell, only on a larger scale.”

“If you say so.”

“Did he come in alone, or in the company of others?”

Riley gave some thought to the question before he answered. “As I recall, he was often in the company of others.”

“How many others?”

“Not many. Half a dozen at most.”

“Was Bob Cantwell one of them?”

“He might have been. I couldn’t say for sure.”

“Do you know the names of any of the others?”

“One of the Crocker heirs, the youngest, Jeremy. The rest … no.”

“Less socially prominent types? Hangers-on?”

“If you mean riffraff, no. I don’t allow that sort in my place.”

“Not riffraff—presentable young men of lesser means.”

“A fair assessment, I suppose.”

“Was St. Ives free with his money? By that I mean, did he finance the play of these hangers-on?”

“He may have. A free spender in any event, yes. Must say I was sorry when he and the others stopped coming in.”

“Was this man among those others?” Quincannon asked, and described Jack Travers.

Riley shrugged. “If so, I’ve no memory of him.”

“Or this man.” Lucas Whiffing, from Sabina’s description of the lad.

“That one sounds vaguely familiar. But I can’t be sure.”

“Does the name Whiffing, Lucas Whiffing, mean anything to you?”

“I can’t say it does,” Riley said, “because it doesn’t.” He shifted position in his chair, causing the mastiff to become instantly alert, and consulted a gold turnip watch. “Now if that’s all, Quincannon, it’s time for my noonday meal. Rollo’s, too. He gets grumpy if he’s not fed regular.”

Quincannon had no more questions to ask and no desire to remain in the presence of a grumpy carnivore the size of a small bear. He wasted no time taking his leave.

*   *   *

A visit to the Purple Palace on Turk Street yielded nothing in the way of confirmation or new information. He had never had any dealings with the proprietor, a man named Kineen, and the employees he questioned were all day workers who had never seen or heard of David St. Ives and his nighttime entourage.

He had better luck at Madame Fifi’s Maison of Parisian Delights, which was neither a mansion (just an ordinary two-story, red-lighted house) nor a purveyor of French delights. Madame Fifi’s accent was as phony as the name of her sporting house, and judging from the three samples lounging in her parlor, her girls were no more French than she was, or likely to be particularly delightful in the practice of their trade. She quickly shooed them out when she discovered Quincannon was not there for the usual reason.

It was fortunate that David St. Ives and his pals were of a differing opinion and so had selected Madame Fifi’s as their favorite from among the dozen or so Tenderloin joy houses. If they had chosen one of the others instead, Quincannon might not have had such an easy time soliciting information. Most of the madams, such as Miss Bessie Hall, “the Queen of O’Farrell Street,” were closed-mouthed about their customers. And had Lettie Carew’s Fiddle Dee Dee been their choice, Quincannon would not have gotten past the front door—and likely been shot had he tried. After the commotion he’d caused at the Fiddle Dee Dee during the bughouse affair last fall, in the pursuit and capture of one of Lettie’s customers, she had sworn to relieve him of a certain portion of his anatomy if ever again he darkened her door.

As it was, it cost him a ten-dollar gold piece to pry open Madam Fifi’s sealed lips. She bit the coin with one of two gold incisors, tucked it between a pair of enormous breasts all but spilling out of the bodice of her too-tight silk dress, and settled back on a quilted couch chair the same flaming orange color as her hair. Above her on the wall were two framed mottoes that expressed the sentiments of her house. One said:
SATISFACTION GUARANTEED OR MONEY REFUNDED.
The other:
IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED, TRY, TRY AGAIN.

“
Mais oui,
I know young M’sieu St. Ives,” she said then. “A fine young gentleman. Always so pleasant, even when he has had a tiny bit too much to drink. Never a complaint.”

“And not afraid to part with a dollar, eh?”

“No, nevair. He pay for his friends’ pleasure as well as his own.”

“How many friends?”

“Oh, two, three, sometimes more.”

“Do you know their names?”

Madame Fifi lifted one shoulder. “M’sieu St. Ives,
oui,
because he is so generous. The others I do not remember. The Maison of French Delights caters to so many gentlemen.”

“But you do remember familiar faces, eh?”

“If they are very familiar.”

Quincannon described Lucas Whiffing. “Was he one of St. Ives’s friends?”

“Ah, but yes,” Madam Fifi said, nodding. “A charming young man, very
joie de vivre
. He comes many times with M’sieu St. Ives and another young man who is, how shall I say, more bashful with my girls. Not so eager or experienced,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Thin fair-haired fellow with a skimpy mustache?”

“Ah,
oui.
He and the charming young man know each other a long time. Once I hear them say they are friends since their school days.”

Bob Cantwell and Lucas Whiffing, school chums. Well, well. Another of Cantwell’s lies exposed: he hadn’t moved to San Francisco from the southland or anywhere else. If Whiffing was a San Francisco native, then Cantwell had been one, too.

“It is a pity we have not had the pleasure of their company recently,” Madame Fifi was saying. “Or the company of M’sieu St. Ives’s other gentlemen friends.”

“But he still comes in regularly, eh?”

“
Certainment.
He was our guest again only last night.”

“When did he stop bringing his friends?”

“Two, three weeks ago. I ask him why, but he chooses not to confide in Madame Fifi.”

Likely because St. Ives’s father had cut off his ready access to spending money. It could also be that he hadn’t willingly introduced Whiffing to his sister; that Whiffing had begun seeing her on his own initiative, St. Ives hadn’t approved when he found out, and there had been a rift between the two as a result. From what Sabina had related of St. Ives’s angry comments to her about Whiffing, that was entirely possible.

A description of Jack Travers confirmed that he, too, had been a regular in St. Ives’s entourage, but Madame Fifi could recall nothing about him. Nor anything about one or two others who had been occasional members of the group. A big, possibly rough man named Zeke?
Mais non,
M’sieu St. Ives’s friends were all refined gentlemen. And names, even if given, were so quickly forgotten.

So the bogus Sherlock had been right after all, Quincannon thought as he departed from the Maison of Parisian Delights. It galled him to have to admit it—and nettled him, too, because he couldn’t for the life of him understand how the Englishman managed to gather clandestine information in what must still be a strange city to him, facts that even a detective of Quincannon’s talents had difficulty ferreting out. Still, in a case such as this one, he was willing to give the devil his due.